Bad People
by shouldsleep
Summary: After a life changing accident, Reid adjusts to life as a blind person with multiple health conditions. He's making progress in his personal life, but can he catch a killer? Follow up to "Good People"  it's probably best to read this first.
1. Chapter 1

**This story is a companion piece to a one shot I wrote entitled "Good People". **

**It's not vital to read the first one but it might help to know the back story. (Just know that Reid was injured in an explosion. The accident robbed him of his sight and he now has health problems. He has a caregiver to help him with day to day things, and has returned to work for the BAU.) Also, "Isis" the cat was staying at Reid's while its owner was away in "Good People".**

**Standard disclaimers apply: Criminal Minds isn't mine, and I'm not profiting from this story. **

**This is unbetaed, although I've done my best to scan for errors. Please let me know if you find any.**

_There's a bit of magic in everything, and some loss to even things out. ~Lou Reed_

My sister, Liz, comes back from Sweden.

She gives me an elaborate painted wooden horse and thanks me for watching her "baby". I'm not exactly sorry to see Isis go; the Siamese has never been fond of me, and the feeling is pretty much mutual.

It's Reid I'm worried about.

He's not exactly depressed, but he's quieter than usual, spending even more time in his head, and one time I catch him absently stroking a couch cushion while he works.

When I notice his appetite (which has been improving) is on the decline, I realize that _this is ridiculous_ and decide to take action.

We pull up to Carrie's house, and I have to admit I'm kind of excited too. Carrie's family moved in across the street from mine when I was six years old; she and Liz were pretty much inseparable, and I've always thought of her as part of the family.

Carrie comes to the door wearing a knee length skirt and a baggy t proclaiming that the moon landing was a hoax; it's one of those rare times where I'm almost grateful that Reid can't see. Cats weave in and out of her legs, cutting her off as she tries to lead us down the hall; she doesn't pay any attention to the furry posse. I try not to wrinkle my nose at the strong smell of cat permeating the house.

She spends a long time showing us Isis' mother, Tabitha, a large Siamese that reminds me of one of the evil cats in Lady and the Tramp. She talks on and on (and on) about her pets (pedigree, genetics, coloring, temperament…) I listen for a few minutes before discretely glancing at my watch. I'm getting a bit impatient with her until I notice that Reid is hanging on every word. I sit back and relax, trying not to smirk as I hear about the importance of feline dental care.

Carrie leads Reid into the cat room, and closes the door behind them as if something illicit is about to take place. A few minutes later she comes out alone.

"What? I don't get to see the kittens?" I'm not a huge cat person, but I appreciate teeny tiny animals as much as the next guy, and after driving all the way out here, I expect to see the new litter.

"He needs to choose on his own, not be influenced in his decision."

"Geez Care , it's just a cat- he's not buying shares in Berkshire Hathaway."

She gives me a disapproving look, and I can tell that I have said the wrong thing.

Carrie is a wiz at making money. She plays the stock market (and wins) and does the cat thing on the side, but her first love is really animals. She takes being a cat owner _much _more seriously than being a shareholder. She is clever but not greedy, and I know she'd stop worrying about stocks in a heartbeat if it wasn't for her mortgage payments and a weakness for Italian shoes.

Carrie serves tea and cookies (and a little cat hair) and we make small talk about the pictures Liz posted from her trip, and how I'm settling into my new apartment. She mentions that she saw a guy I went to school with working at a bank in Richmond.

An hour later and we are running out of things to say, the tea is getting cold and if I eat another cookie I'll probably cough up a hairball. I'm just about to suggest that she call me when Reid is ready, when we hear the tap, tap, tap of a cane on the hardwood.

He's carrying a cat; it's small but definitely not one of the kittens from the new litter. Carrie gets up and guides him into the kitchen; I see the disappointment on her face when she sees what one he's chosen.

"Oh, that's Simon. He's… he's not for sale," she says, apologetically, taking the cat from Reid as he feels around for a place to sit.

"He's from the same litter as Isis, but he never sold. You don't want that cat, Spencer. Why don't we go back and find you a nice kitten?"

"I like this one," Reid says stubbornly, and the look on his face tells me he that he's made up his mind and isn't going to budge.

"I've never been that comfortable with infants anyway, so an older cat is fine with me."

Carrie shakes her head and laughs at his response, giving me a look that says "is this guy for real?"

I smile and shrug; I've gotten used to the genius's quirky remarks although I still can't tell if he's serious or putting me on.

"Well, I didn't plan on giving Noah's buddy a dud cat, but if you really want him…"

Reid frowns, and I wonder if he's decided he doesn't want Simon after all, or if he's just annoyed at being referred to as my 'buddy'.

"He's a dud because he didn't sell or because he's not a kitten?" Reid asks, puzzled.

"No, he's a dud because he's the runt and his eyes cross."

Carrie claps a hand over her mouth as soon as she realizes what she's said, but the damage is already done.

Reid becomes interested in the pockets on his vest, turning them inside out and then tucking them back neatly, pursing his lips in concentration as he smoothes away invisible wrinkles. He gives the pockets a final pat, and looks right at Carrie.

"I'd like to purchase this cat, please."

Carrie waves off the offer of money (still mortified by what she has said) but Reid insists on paying her the exact amount she charged for show quality cats, and she doesn't dare argue. We leave hurriedly, with Simon in his new carrier; the walk to the car is silent, but I can tell that Reid is pleased.

My key sticks a little as I bend down to unlock the rusted door. I try not to be insulted that a cat cost more than my car.

Back at Reid's apartment, I fill two small blue bowls, one with water and one with kibble, and hope that Simon isn't as finicky as his sister. The doctor proudly takes his new pet to meet Mrs. Lombardi, the landlady who will watch him when we're away. I set up the litter box and place Simon's cat bed on the window seat.

I turn on the oven and open the fridge, removing the casserole Garcia dropped off earlier. I am the technical analyst's number one fan these days- she's as good in the kitchen as she is on the keyboard, and has been my saving grace on countless nights when I'm just too tired to cook. Reid's diet is limited so we rarely eat out, and I feel guilty giving him too many packaged foods. Garcia knows what things he can eat, and somehow manages to make the bland food _taste good._

Suddenly there is a scream.

It sounds like an animal.

I drop the shepherd's pie and wince as CorningWare and ceramic tile meet with a deafening crash. I am out the door and across the hall before I realize my feet are even moving, and then somehow I'm in Mrs. Lombardi's kitchen trying to steady Reid's trembling shoulders as I call out his name. He's staring at his palms with horrified disbelief.

He doesn't need sight to know what is on them.

Dark liquid drips down his wrists and pools on the chipped linoleum.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

I fumble for my cell, and try not to look at the body on the floor.

TBC

**AN: Please review, it makes my day! **


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Please see first chapter.

_I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing. ~Agatha Christie  
_

Hotch arrives in fifteen minutes although I know he lives further away than that.

I am grateful for the immediacy in which he takes control of things and once again it's obvious that he was born to be in charge. He instructs me to take Reid back to his apartment, and I do, only too happy to leave the grisly scene behind.

Reid sits on the couch beside me, shivering, wrapped in a blanket that doesn't touch the cold.

He's been shaking like a leaf since I found him, and hasn't made a sound since the guttural cry. As terrible as it was to see Mrs. Lombardi's lifeless face- her eyes bulging, mouth slightly agape, and all the blood…. _Seeing_ the body was difficult for me- no matter how many pictures of crime scenes I see, I am never prepared.

But Reid didn't see the body, he _touched_ it. I imagine him exploring his neighbor's corpse with delicate hands, trying to find a pulse that isn't there, his fingers sticky with her blood.

I swallow reflexively and think how horrible it must be to be blind- contact with your world is either up close and personal, or you're forced to rely on someone else. Technology is a great tool which can assist in so many ways- but a computer isn't much help when you stumble upon a body.

Garcia arrives; stroking Reid's hair like _he's_ the new pet and proceeds to make far more coffee than any of us will drink.

J.J. appears in tight black pants, her wet hair tied loosely in a bun, mumbling something I don't quite catch about pilates boot camp. I almost don't recognize the woman minus an impeccable suit, without the newscaster smile or her hair perfectly coiffed. I try not to appreciate the curve of her hips, and the tightness of her ass. I try to remind myself that I'm a professional.

The blonde pats Reid's back gently, speaking in a soothing voice like she's talking to the family of a victim. The doctor stares straight ahead; seemingly unaware of her presence as he worries his bottom lip until I think it might bleed.

I can't handle any more blood today.

I go into the bedroom and find Morgan on his hands and knees, peering under the bed.

I've forgotten about Simon.

The cat is cowering in the furthest corner against the wall, hissing as the black man slowly extends a hand in his direction.

"The doors are closed, don't worry about him. He's freaked out by all the noise and the people. We just got him home and then all this happened," I babble, not sure if I'm really talking about Simon at all.

Morgan's back on his feet, carefully watching my face; which I try to keep blank, expressionless.

"All this team needs is for me to get my eyes scratched out," he says, smiling grimly and heading for the door.

Prentiss and Rossi are talking quietly when we come out. The conversation pauses every once in a while as they turn to look at the doctor. Reid is slowly rocking back and forth, knees drawn up to his belly as he stares blindly at his hands. The blood has long since been washed away but he holds them out, arms slightly away from his body like they're disgusting- _like they're dirty_.

His face is pale and damp with perspiration, but he still shivers.

I can't let this go on. If I do I'm not doing my job- as a nurse or his friend.

l catch Morgan's eye and point toward the bedroom. He nods and we help Reid sit up and move slowly down the hall. He's compliant, but he walks stiffly, mechanical as an automaton; I think he would follow us anywhere.

We sit him on the edge of the bed. I untie his shoes, loosening the laces before pulling the purple high tops from his feet. I smile at the memory of buying them.

_We had just finished a case in Oregon and gone shopping with J.J. and Prentiss at an outlet mall. It was a bit of a tradition after a tough case; if the outcome was successful it was considered a reward, and if not it was a bit of retail therapy. The team had really shone on this case, Reid in particular, who found the proverbial needle in a 'stack of needles', and put the pieces together with seconds on the clock. The case ended in a rare, but peaceful surrender; I knew Reid was really only happy when the unsub survived apprehension to be led away in shackles._

_Reid had touched every shoe in the store, asking me the color and pattern of each one as he traced seams and felt laces, breathing in the new shoe smell of leather and rubber bands. He finally settled on a pair of converse sneakers in 'gothic grape' and wore them out, carrying his old wingtips in the box. _

That was a good day.

Morgan exchanges his sweaty button down for a t-shirt and the doctor lifts his arms like a child. I hand Reid a blue tablet and a glass of water. He swallows the pill dry and settles back against the pillows. Morgan covers him with a quilt and I turn off the light.

I stay late, answering the questions of a red haired woman from the local PD, who seems to have taken the reins from Agent Hotchner. I nod and shake my head, and she scribbles my answers onto an official looking form. People tramp in and out of the building until the early hours of the morning, when Morgan puts a hand on my shoulder and pushes me towards the door.

"Get some sleep, one of us will stay."

I stumble through the parking lot looking for my beat up Volkswagen in the sea of black and white. I finally locate it up against the far side of the building by the chain link fence. I fall thankfully into the seat, and try not to fall asleep during the short drive to my apartment.

I crawl into bed with my clothes on and shut my eyes, but it's a long time before I fall asleep.

TBC

**A/N: Once again, I have no beta- please let me know if you see any errors (grammatical or factual) and I will do my best to correct them.**

**Thank you to those who have reviewed- it inspires me to keep writing. **


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: see first chapter

_For what human ill does not dawn seem to be an alleviation? ~Thornton Wilder_

I take the metro to Reid's the next morning; I don't trust myself to drive when I'm so tired. It's only been a few hours since I left the apartment, but it feels right to be coming back. This is where I'm needed, or maybe just where I need to be_._

Hotch is sitting on the couch when I arrive; his suit from the previous night is rumpled, but somehow I know he never fell asleep. He gives me a little nod that I take as a greeting; I know better than to expect more. He's too weary for conversation and the situation is too solemn for one of his rare smiles.

I hear the door to the bedroom close softly, and I hear the padding of bare feet on the hardwood. Morgan's wearing a plain black t and an old pair of track pants- the clothes he leaves in Reid's bottom drawer, just in case. If Reid is sick or can't sleep, he spends the night on the futon. Sometimes he stays for no reason at all.

"Pretty boy is in the shower," he says, and I can tell he's trying to lighten the mood by using the old nickname.

"Are there any more of you hiding in the study?" I ask wryly, knowing that this is what some people need to cope with stress. I've worked enough shifts in Emergency to know how to play along. I'm a little surprised that the doctor is up already, the sedative I gave him last night was powerful. A crazy Siamese meow interrupts my thoughts as Simon marches into the room demanding to be petted.

There's a pot of oatmeal on the stove, and I've switched on the coffeemaker by the time Reid comes into the kitchen. He chooses a mug from the rack on the counter, feeling around for the one he likes, blue earthenware with a rectangular handle. He's not really supposed to have caffeine, but I don't say anything.

Reid is carrying his laptop bag; I don't know why I'm surprised that he is planning on going to work. I remind him what the doctor said at his last appointment about stretching himself too thin. He nods, taking a huge gulp of coffee, but I can tell I'm fighting a losing battle.

Reid is more resilient than anyone gives him credit for- he's no stranger to psychological pain or physical suffering. The accident has coated him in rubber; he's used to bouncing back.

The fallout from the explosion didn't just cost him his sight; it affected almost every body system. Fractured ribs lacerated his spleen and it had to be removed when they couldn't stop the bleeding. He's on antibiotics because his immune system is so low, and something as innocuous as a cold can quickly become serious.

Reid is lucky to have survived a serious head injury. He still gets headaches, although they are becoming less frequent with time. The dizziness and coordination problems come and go, and are worse when he's tired.

Emotionally, Reid's something of an enigma. He says he doesn't remember the blast or even the case he was on when it occurred. He passed his psychological exam for the bureau with flying colors, which is no surprise. It's hard to fail a test when your brain has memorized the answer key.

His stomach was badly damaged by shrapnel, and the surgeon was forced to remove over a foot of his intestines. It's hard to get enough calories into him, and not all of the nutrients he eats get absorbed. The scar tissue is extensive; his appetite is small and eating will probably always be painful.

I'd like to call Dr. Steele and rat him out, but I settle for packing extra electrolyte fluids and making Reid promise to take the full hour for his lunch.

I don't always come into the office now. I'm on the casual list at the hospital and pick up the occasional shift when Reid's working in town. I refuse calls when he's ill or travelling, but I prefer being busy to spending hours in the bullpen, listening to crime statistics and watching Reid work his magic. Morgan picks him up after breakfast (if he hasn't spent the night) and Garcia drops by when the team is away and Reid's helping via satellite.

We've settled into a rhythm, Dr. Reid, the team, and me, and for the most part it's working.

I turn down a call from the hospital. They have a shift starting in an hour, and I still have time to change if I leave right now. I don't wear scrubs to Reid's anymore, which is kind of a shame because it's the closest I'll get to working in pajamas. Morgan and Hotch are more than adequate escorts, but somehow I'm not comfortable leaving the doctor today.

We stop in at the local police station before heading to BAU headquarters. The place is a beehive of activity, cops milling around drinking coffee and chatting, a few at their desks, actually working on reports. The red haired woman from the night before is there, and I wonder if _I'm_ the strange one for requiring sleep. She's talking to a thirty something male I don't recognize, he's dressed in street clothes and looks pretty average. He has shifty eyes that I don't quite trust. The red head- Detective McNamara, I recall- spots Hotch and waves us over.

The agents shake hands with her, and she shakes mine too, I'm not sure if she thinks I'm an agent too or if she's just being polite.

"This is Jack Lombardi, we managed to locate him this morning," she says, introducing the tall, dark haired man beside her.

I see Reid's body stiffen when he hears the surname, and I have to admit that I'm surprised. I had always gotten the impression that the landlady had no family. She had spent Thanksgiving at Reid's; he had insisted, saying something corny like "the more the merrier". She had stopped by at Christmas too. When her toilet overflowed she called Reid- I ended up doing the plunging and mopping up the mess, but it was the doctor she had turned to in a crisis.

"Who are you?" Reid asks rudely.

I'm surprised. The doctor interviews rapists, arsonists and child murderers- the scum of the earth- and yet I've only seen him be rude on a few occasions, usually when he's on a case and time is running out for the victim.

"Gloria is- uh, _was_ my aunt," he explained, correcting himself. For a moment I don't know who he's talking about, but then I realize and feel stupid. Of course she had a first name, even if I hadn't known it.

The landlady has always been "Mrs. Lombardi" to me, and I've never heard Reid use her first name either, although she always called him by his.

"Where do you live? ... And where have you been until now?" Reid asks. His tone is confrontational, and I can tell the others are uncomfortable.

Jack Lombardi looks slightly taken aback at being spoken to this way by a skinny stranger. His hands curl into fists at his sides, and I can tell it's an effort for him to keep his voice pleasant.

"I live in town, but I travel a lot for work - I don't get many chances to see my aunt."

"You won't have _any_ chances now. Unless you can be bothered to attend her funeral," Reid replies icily.

"Reid…" Hotch says warningly, his eyebrows nearly meeting as he glares sternly.

"Well, it's true- you know we're all thinking it. What kind of relative doesn't turn up until a person dies? I'm surprised you even came down here, Mr. Lombardi; you could have saved yourself the gas money and just gone to the reading of her will. That's what you really want, isn't it? Her money?"

Lombardi tries to move closer to Reid, but Morgan holds him back.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" sneers Jack Lombardi, with a mean look in his eye that dares the doctor to reply.

Reid can't see the look, and opens his mouth to answer, but Hotch pulls him away before he can say anything else.

"What? He never visited her. She was such a nice lady, and so lonely… I always felt sorry that she had no relatives." I'm a little confused that he mentions this because as far as I know, Reid doesn't have any family either.

"And all this time this jerk lived less than an hour away and couldn't be bothered to drop in for some fruitcake at Christmas?"

"_Reid_. This might be personal for you, but you were just introduced as _an agent _of the FBI. Try and show a little professionalism. If you won't do that, you can wait in the car," Hotch's tone is cool, his annoyance obvious.

"Yes, sir."

Reid has the decency to look mollified, but I know the wheels are turning inside his brilliant head.

He's not about to let this go.

TBC

This was quickly scanned for errors – I'm heading to work but wanted to post this first. Please let me know if you find any glaring mistakes- I will probably revise this later.

Please R&R!


	4. Chapter 4

**Please see first chapter for disclaimers.**

_Suspicion is a heavy armor and with its weight it impedes more than it protects. ~Robert Burns_

The drive to Quantico is uncomfortable to say the least.

I chat with Morgan about football (despite my ignorance of sports) trying to break the awkward silence. As soon as we enter the bullpen, Reid moves toward his desk and Hotch goes into his office without a word. I am continuously amazed at the doctor's ability to navigate through familiar surroundings. He is spatially "familiar" after only a few visits to a new place, and unless the furniture is rearranged or objects get moved he gets around pretty well on his own. It might be due in part to his incredible memory, his brain unconsciously recalling the distance between workspaces, and the number of paces to his desk.

I work on a paper for the online course I'm taking at UVA- Theoretical Medicine and Bioethics. Reid has been hounding me for months about my vague plans to go back to school, and this class is something of a compromise. He's a genius, and thinks nothing of picking up another PhD in his spare time, but academics don't come so easily to me. I've always been a good student, but I have to really study to get good marks.

I was a bit of a shut-in during college, so I can't really relate to Hollywood's cliché of postsecondary life. I didn't party and have never smoked a joint; my typical Friday night was spent in the library with my nose in a book. Somehow I don't think Reid played much beer pong at school either.

At twelve thirty I rouse Reid from his desk and he gets up, true to his word, and follows me into the office of the technical analyst. Garcia is half watching an episode of Firefly on one of her monitors while perusing a collection of mug shots on the screen in front of her. She jumps a little, startled as we enter the room, and quickly switches off the tv show.

We go to a little bistro five minutes away, in Penelope's car this time because we rode in with Hotch. I smile at the Hello Kitty seat covers and the number of Juicy Fruit wrappers on the floor. Reid's shoulders look more relaxed in the tech's presence, and I know that this was a good idea. We order without looking at the menu, and I'm pleased to see that the doctor actually appears interested when the food arrives. I forget about the meal replacement drink I have in my bag, and just eat my sandwich, half listening to the conversation.

We've been coming here with Garcia since Reid came back to work. It's nice to see him laughing along with the zany woman, letting his guard down for once- right now he's just having a good time.

I'm thinking about my paper (and wondering if one of the paragraphs truly supports my thesis) when I realize that the conversation has drifted back to what happened yesterday. The doctor is talking about our visit to the police station, screwing up his face in disgust as he mentions meeting the nephew. Garcia had met the landlady several times at Reid's apartment, and even invited her to the office Christmas party she'd organized for the BAU. She was more of an acquaintance than a close friend, but it's understandable that Penelope is upset too.

"I'll look him up when we get back to the office- see if he has a record or any history of violent behavior. If he's gotten so much as a parking ticket we'll know about it," she promises, stabbing her fork at a pile of potato salad.

Reid looks satisfied, and we finish the meal in a companionable silence, but I know he won't let the matter rest until he's gotten to the bottom of whatever happened to Mrs. Lombardi.

The next month is busy. The team gets called out on several cases, bringing them to four different states; Reid and I go along for three of them. The doctor seems to have recovered from the shock of finding his neighbor. His appetite continues to improve and he is almost pain free with the help of prescriptions. He doesn't like taking pills or any sort of drugs, but is slowly accepting that he needs medication to have any real quality of life.

We come back late one evening, having just arrived from New Mexico where the team helped on a missing person's case. Our flight from Albuquerque was delayed due to heavy fog, and we've been awake nearly forty eight hours. I've got Simon, who we've just picked up from the kennel, and Reid is now able to carry his own go bag. Small improvements in his condition have made a world of difference in the young man's self esteem- he's happier these days, and gets out more- not just to work either. He volunteers when he can at the local literacy club, reading to small children and does free tutoring in any subject.

_I was curious the first time we went, and a little concerned at how he would handle the "reading" part of flipping through faded picture books. I shouldn't have worried. The kids love him, crowding around when he arrived and fighting over who got to sit on Spencer's lap. _

_He didn't need a physical copy of any story because he has a library in his head. The youngsters listened raptly for however long it took him to read "the book", and pretty soon I caught myself getting drawn in the story. _

_I wondered how he would be as a teacher, explaining the things that come so easily to himself. He is great at explaining math and science as well, and manages to rein in his encyclopedic knowledge and use terms the children will understand. _

I'm exhausted from travelling, and want nothing more than to crawl between the sheets of my own bed, but I'll settle for my client's futon tonight- I'm way too tired to be driving.

There are people blocking the entrance to Reid's place, he bumps into someone and almost falls. I grab his arm to steady him and sit the cat carrier on the pavement between us. Reid tries to apologize for the collision, but the woman waves it off saying there's no harm done. She looks vaguely familiar and I think she might live in one of the units above Reid's.

"Lydia? Is that you?" Reid asks, looking slightly to the left of where she's standing.

"Dr. Reid, do you know what's going on; you work for the police, right?"

"He just got back from a trip, and all this was going on," I explain, gesturing at the queue of people which I now recognize are all people who live in the building.

"Is this some sort of fire drill? I'm freezing my ass off out here," complains a fat man in a bathrobe.

No one answers him; everyone's attention is turned to the building's entrance where two men have just come out wheeling a gurney. It's shrouded by a sheet.

People are starting to whisper, necks crane as they look around, trying to figure out who's missing from the crowd.

I tell Reid what I've just seen, and he pulls a cell phone out the duffel on his shoulder.

"Call Prentiss," he commands into the mouthpiece.

I'm a bit surprised. The doctor has a good relationship with Emily Prentiss, but I expected him to call Hotch or Morgan, even Rossi before the beautiful brunette. My mind drifts to the sweater she was wearing on the jet, the way it had clung in all the right places like it had been custom fit. I can't remember what her pants looked like, I was too distracted…

"We're taking a cab to Emily's," Reid says, shaking me out of my reverie. "The building manager just said we'll have to find other accommodations for the night. The place is sealed off while the investigators look around."

I nod dumbly, wondering how I could have missed so much information.

"Why Prentiss?" I ask in the cab, more curious than anything.

"Hotch won't have room- his sister in law will be there with Jack, and Morgan has a dog- I don't think Simon would like Clooney."

Emily comes to the door in black silk pajamas. I try not to stare at her chest; I've never seen anyone look so good in sleepwear.

I brush my teeth in the bathroom, grateful to have my go bag. Simon is stalking around the guest room examining everything with suspicious eyes. He might smell Prentiss' cat, Sergio, who is currently shut in the laundry room, or maybe he's just pissed off at us for leaving him at the kennel for four days. I hear raised voices in the kitchen, but know better than to go investigate; sometimes the hardest part of the job is knowing when to mind my own business.

Reid comes back into the bedroom and I silently help him get ready for bed. He falls asleep quickly, but suddenly I'm not tired at all. I feel thirsty, my mouth is dry as paper.

Emily is in the living room when I come out, sitting in a leather club chair by the fire. She's on her cell and doesn't notice me at first, but waves me over before I can slip into the kitchen.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Morgan," Prentiss says, ending the call and tossing her phone on the ottoman.

"You want a drink, Noah? I sure need one after today."

I nod, I rarely consume alcohol, but right now a drink sounds fantastic.

The agent pours two fingers of scotch into an expensive looking glass. I take a drink, grimacing as the fiery liquid goes down.

"Reid thinks we should have taken his suspicion of the nephew more seriously. He got Garcia to dig up all the info she could on the guy and let's just say he's not a model citizen. Reid's been hounding us to help him do unauthorized surveillance on Jack Lombardi."

I nod again, this doesn't surprise me. Reid can be like a dog with a bone once he latches onto an idea.

"Did you find out what happened at Reid's building?" I ask, changing the subject. Technically I work for the BAU and not for the doctor, but my loyalty will always lie with Reid regardless of who signs the paycheck.

Prentiss nods, and takes a drink. Her face doesn't screw up at the taste, although the scotch is really strong. The more I'm around her I notice that her façade of strength never wavers. She never gives any hint that she feels physical discomfort, even when she must be hurting. And yet she's far from heartless, and she isn't a cold person; private maybe, but not cold.

A woman in her career is still something of an anomaly, just like a man is in mine. My own father has called me a 'murse' on more than one occasion. The man is grudgingly supportive of my career path, but I know he probably wishes I'd picked a more traditionally masculine profession. After all, it's better to be a garbage man than to do "women's work", even if the pay is crap.

"I have a friend at the PD. There was a suspicious death in the apartment above Reid's. The cops aren't officially calling it a homicide, but they're leaning that way."

"Who…?" I don't know everyone who lives in the building, but Reid has introduced me to some of his neighbors. I was a bit surprised that the doctor even knew the other people in his apartment complex- maybe he was more outgoing before his accident. Reid has come in contact with more than his share of bad people, it's no wonder he's become something of a recluse.

"Charles Morales… he was an insurance salesman."

I shake my head, "Doesn't ring a bell."

"Owner of one gigantic snake- CSI found it hiding under a sofa in the living room; it gave them quite a scare."

"Reid told me one of his neighbors had a snake. A big bald guy?"

"Probably, I don't have a physical description."

"They don't think the snake could have… _you know?"_

"Reid said a full grown Burmese python is capable of overpowering and killing an adult male," Prentiss recited, shuddering at the thought of having the life slowly squeezed out of you by your own pet.

"And he thinks…?"

"No, Reid claims that Monty is very docile. Apparently he only eats rats from the pet store and has never bitten anyone."

"Monty?"

"Apparently Charles was a fan of British comedy."

I laugh and take another swig of my drink, flashing what my mother refers to as my "used car salesman smile". Prentiss blushes and tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

The scotch makes me warm and sleepy, and pretty soon I make my way back to the guestroom to get some shuteye. I'm unaware that it is not going to be a restful night.

TBC

**AN: Please leave a review! (I will admit to being a feedback junkie.) **

**If you are enjoying the story, or have any suggestions, please let me know. I don't have a beta, so if you spot a mistake, tell me! **

**Many thanks to all of you who have reviewed; your comments mean a lot to me. It really makes my day to open my mailbox and find a bunch of Review Alerts, so thank you. **

**To those of you who prefer just to read, thank you too!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: Please see first chapter**

_Illness is the doctor to whom we pay most heed; to kindness, to knowledge, we make promise only; pain we obey.__Marcel Proust_

I wake up to the sound of Reid retching.

I open my eyes and squint at my watch in the semidarkness: 3:15 am.

I sigh, and wish for a moment that my job was nine to five and dealt with numbers instead of bodily fluids. I stagger out of bed and pad into the bathroom to check on the doctor.

He's pale and sweaty, crouching on all fours in reverence to the commode. I turn on the faucet and wet a cloth for Reid's neck. I offer him a drink of water, but he just glares at the glass like it's personally wronged him.

"I can't."

"You need the fluid."

It's impossible to stare down a blind man, so it must be my tone of voice that makes him listen. He takes a cautious sip and we both wait hopefully.

Tick, tock…

I curse when the water comes back up moments later. This isn't good.

Reid's injuries have made him more susceptible to dehydration- the flu or even a hot day can be deadly if his fluids aren't replenished. I would set up an IV to rehydrate him, but I don't have the supplies at Emily's, we'd have to go to the emergency room.

"Were you feeling sick earlier?"

"My stomach kind of hurt."

I ask Reid a series of questions about the pain which he answers mostly with shrugs. His health is one of the few topics the doctor doesn't care to elaborate on, and getting information is like pulling teeth.

It doesn't surprise me that despite his eidetic memory, he can't pinpoint when the pain began. I've never met anyone less aware of their body- Reid is known to become so immersed in a case that he forgets to eat and sleep.

It's intrusive, but I need to ask some pretty personal things to figure out what's wrong. Based on his answers I decide that Reid probably has a stomach virus. Since nothing with the genius is ever that simple, I decide to watch him closely, but hold off on the hospital visit.

I help him back to bed and move the trashcan nearby.

I give him a Phenergan suppository from my go bag, wincing sympathetically as it slides in. Reid whimpers; it's not one of my favorite jobs either, but sometimes there's no alternative.

He curls up in a ball and waits for the misery to subside.

I feel for him- nausea sucks.

I'm exhausted, but the adrenaline has kicked in from being called into 'work mode' and it's hard to fall back asleep. Reid is squirming around, trying to get comfortable, and I hope the meds kick in soon.

Reid has been sick a few times since I've started working for the BAU, his low immune system make him an easy target for germs.

The rest of the team tends to overreact, probably a vestige of the helplessness they felt following the explosion.

Sometimes I wonder if my job isn't more about giving Agent Hotchner piece of mind than taking care of Reid's health.

I grin, thinking of the first time he was ill.

_One night, I got an urgent call from Morgan, who was staying over at the apartment. Apparently Reid had thrown up, and the agent didn't know what to do. I asked some questions about the doctor's condition and decided it could wait until the morning. _

_I tried to get off the phone, I'd just worked a double shift at the hospital and was running on the dregs of cafeteria coffee, but Morgan sounded like an anxious first-time parent, and I finally agreed to stop by. _

_I dressed quickly, pulling on an old navy scrub set with the knowledge that the visit might be messy. Experience has taught me that it's better to be safe than sorry._

_Isis greeted me at the door when I arrived, rubbing up against my leg in an unusual display of affection. Apparently her feline ESP had kicked in; usually she hated me, but I could help Reid whom she adored and thus was momentarily useful. _

_I tried not to laugh when I entered the bedroom- Morgan sat anxiously keeping vigil at the doctor's side. Reid was a curled lump under a mass of covers. Morgan was a doer, and I could just picture the other agent adding blanket after blanket, desperate for any action that might help his friend._

_I lifted off the mound of covers to reveal Reid's skinny body, arms clasped around his belly, grimacing in pain. A brief interrogation revealed that Morgan had ordered a pepperoni pizza for dinner- a food definitely not on the dietician's list._

_I rolled my eyes and dug out a heating pad from my bag, the one that Garcia claims is as deep as Mary Poppins' (I don't appreciate the comparison). The doctor's body relaxed a little when I put the warm pad on his stomach. _

_The consult had ended with a spoonful of Mylanta for Reid, and a lecture for Morgan on what I consider an 'emergency' and thus grounds to wake me up in the middle of the night._

It shouldn't be indigestion this time- Reid had only had "safe foods" on the jet, yogurt and a banana.

Two hours later and Reid is moaning in his sleep, knees drawn up to his midsection.

I gently wake him up, and take his temperature- it's slightly elevated but not dangerously high, but his pulse is racing. His gut is bloated, giving the thin man the appearance of having a potbelly.

Reid is a little vague about what's wrong, but eventually reveals that he's still nauseous and has stomach cramps. I gently feel his abdomen, and he cries out at the contact.

I wake Emily with a knock on her door telling her that Reid is sick and I'm calling a cab to take us to the hospital.

"Don't be silly, I'll drive you. Just give me a minute to get dressed."

Reid is cranky and doesn't want to get out of bed, but I am persistent, and ten minutes later we are in Prentiss' sedan en route to the hospital.

There is a surprising amount of traffic on the road, and once again I'm glad I don't have a long commute. Emily keeps peering into the rearview mirror at the hunched body in the backseat.

For once she is upset by a crisis, or maybe she's just too tired to slap on her "agent face".

I help Reid into a wheelchair and take him in through the emergency entrance. He's more alert now and muttering about how he's able to walk, and doesn't need to be here in the first place. Emily pays for parking; still level headed enough to avoid being ticketed by an opportunistic meter maid.

I have a friend in admitting, and quickly explain Reid's history; he fast tracks us ahead of a long line of earaches and runny noses. It never ceases to amaze me the trivialities that bring some people to the ER. We are either a nation full of crybabies and hypochondriacs, or people are just too lazy to make an appointment.

Jumping the queue still entails a forty five minute wait, during which Reid vomits into a lady's giant handbag, thinking he's over the garbage.

Emily apologizes profusely, and even offers to pay for the bag, which is apparently a designer, limited edition one of a kind worth the GDP of a developing nation.

Luckily we're called next and no cash changes hands.

Dr. Pace is old, at least seventy; wearing glasses that make his eyes look like an insect's.

Reid is even paler than usual, still tightly clutching his abdomen, and I know I've made the right call bringing him in. I don't have the resources to deal with this at home.

I motion the doctor aside so I can talk to him. I tell him about Reid's symptoms and my suspicion as to what is going on. The doctor nods indulgently, gazing off to one side while I babble on.

I don't know if he's really listening to me or merely ogling at Prentiss.

Emily is crouched next to the wheelchair talking quietly to Reid, comforting him as he retches into a bedpan. It's a little strange to see the woman act maternal, though I've seen her softer side before when dealing with children and trauma victims.

He has Reid lie on an examining table, and gently palpates his distended belly. Reid lets out a squeak of pain, and feebly bats away the doctor's hands. The old man presses a stethoscope against Reid's abdomen and listens carefully, a serious look on his face.

Things move quickly after this, and Reid is whisked away for x rays and tests while Prentiss and I are left to wait and worry.

Emily cringes at the taste of the cafeteria's coffee, although I warned her it was bad. I give her my best "I told you so" face as I sip hot chocolate.

I'm shaken up by the quick progression of a simple stomach virus, and for once I don't need the caffeine to stay awake.

"Do they think it's his appendix?" the agent asks, taking another drink, her brown eyes peering worriedly over the rim of Styrofoam.

I shake my head, wishing that this was the case; appendixes don't grow back- one trip under the knife and problem solved.

"The accident caused a lot of scar tissue inside his abdomen. It can form fibrous bands called 'adhesions' that can pull and twist the intestines and even strangle parts off. If its supply of oxygenated blood gets cut off, the bowel becomes necrotic- dead," I explain, trying not to sound too much like Reid with my explanation.

"Can they fix it?"

I nod, continuing, "The surgeon can repair it, but each time they open him up they create more scar tissue. It's kind of a vicious circle."

Prentiss sighs and takes a large gulp of coffee that probably burns her mouth.

"I thought he was getting better."

"He is… he's a lot better."

Emily looks doubtful at this, so I continue, "The headaches and dizziness rarely bother him anymore. He's more confident with his cane; he hardly needs me, really."

"If you hadn't been around tonight he could have died."

"He's going to be fine," I say, sounding more certain than I feel.

I make the phone call to Hotch, leaving it to him to decide whether to call the rest of the team this early. He sounds tired when he answers the phone, but quickly wakes up when he hears the news. He wants details I can't give him, and seems angry that I don't have more information. Prentiss has been making calls too, and Garcia and Morgan arrive before Hotch.

There is an anxious period of waiting.

Garcia sobs while Morgan paces around the tiny waiting room, his hands clenched into fists like he wants to punch something. Hotch gets there and goes up to the front desk, badgering the poor lady for news about the doctor.

Emily runs interference, offering Penelope Kleenex, and directing Hotch away from the desk when it's clear that the woman is getting irritated. She leaves Derek alone, which is wise in my opinion- no one needed to get a shiner by mistake.

Finally one of the nurses comes to see us, she looks vaguely familiar but I can't remember her name. I want to apologize when the agents approach in a swarm, bombarding her with questions about their friend.

She tells us that Reid has a bowel obstruction, but it's a partial blockage and they're delaying surgery to see if the problem resolves.

The team sighs in relief- the thought of another surgery was almost too much for them to handle.

They've gotten used to having their genius back on cases, travelling with them, and generally just being his quirky self. When he's gone, a piece of the team is missing and each member feels incomplete.

He tries to hide any discomfort from the other agents, and is successful for the most part. It's easy to forget that he's still fragile.

I try to prepare Hotch and the others for what their friend might look like, but everyone's too anxious to see Reid to listen.

The doctor is propped up against a wimpy hospital pillow, dressed in a paper gown. He's smiling weakly, but nobody notices- they're too fixated on the tube in his nose and the bags of fluids flowing into him.

He's pale and sickly looking, but I'm relieved. If he's able to sit up and feign enthusiasm, then things could be worse.

"Reid, we're all here- Morgan, Garcia, and Hotch. J.J and Rossi are on their way," Prentiss tells him, touching his foot as she sits on the end of his bed. He mumbles something I don't understand, and Emily motions me over.

"He wants you."

Reid's voice is barely a whisper, as though the effort of speech is exhausting, "Tell the team they need to find the killer…"

I almost laugh at Reid's one track mind- leave it to him to act like this whole hospital business is merely an inconvenience. He just wants to solve the murders.

"They wanted to see you, they're worried," I tell him, not bothering to include myself in the statement. He knows I'm worried; he wouldn't have let me bring him here otherwise.

Reid is allowed a few minutes to visit and then the nurse comes over and asks us to leave.

"Dr. Reid's assistant, Noah Wilder, will stay to oversee his care," Hotch informs the nurse, putting a hand on my shoulder. The nurse looks surprised but doesn't argue, and the agents file toward the exit.

"He won't show it, but he's scared," the lead agent tells me, and pauses like he's not sure whether to go on.

"Look after him."

He takes one last look at Reid before striding out the door with the others.

The hospital stay is uneventful. Sleep, try to ingest something and then throw up. Rinse and repeat.

Finally, on the third day, the doctor manages to keep down some Boost. His belly is x rayed and we're given the all clear that the blockage is gone. Reid is pale and exhausted, but grinning from ear to ear as I push his wheelchair to the waiting car.

I drive him over to Garcia's where he will be staying for the foreseeable future.

His apartment complex has been reopened, and most of the tenants have cautiously returned to their suites, but Reid refuses to go back. I can't blame him.

According to the investigators, Mrs. Lombardi was stabbed in a botched robbery attempt, and Charles Morales may or may not have been suffocated by Monty the python (the autopsy results were inconclusive). The cases are thought to be unrelated, but Reid has his own theories.

In close quarters at Garcia's, I've overheard his angry phone calls to the PD and seen him arguing with his own colleagues (and closest friends).

Jack Lombardi has an air tight alibi for the night in question, and was never questioned in the supposed "freak accident" that killed Morales.

Morgan has finally refused to keep pursuing his theories, having already interrogated the men who support Lombardi's alibi. They are willing to back up that he was playing poker with them on the night his aunt was murdered.

"There's no evidence that it was anything but a robbery. Her jewelry box and the cash from her wallet were missing, the investigators even found an emptied safe in the closet. I know you're sad about what happened, but there's no serial killer at work here. A cornered thief and a crazy assed snake are not a conspiracy, Reid. You know we all think you're brilliant, man, but this time you're wrong."

Reid had been angry after this discussion, and asked to be taken back to Penelope's, claiming he had a stomach ache. He shrugged off my attempts to examine him, and spent the rest of the day locked in the tech's relaxation room, a closet-like space with a beanbag chair smelling strongly of "incense".

Dr. Steele has cleared him to work at the office, but wants the genius to hold off on travelling for a while, and Reid obeys grudgingly. The team has just finished a case in west Texas, in which Reid consulted via Garcia.

I knock on the tech's door, and getting no response, unlock it using the key Garcia has given me while Reid stays. I hear voices in the living room, and snort with laughter when I see what's going on.

Penelope, wearing a black turtleneck and a ski mask, appears ready to rob a bank. Reid looks like he is participating in some kind of bizarre mating ritual, sporting an elaborate bird mask complete with feathers and sequins.

Reid turns in my direction at the noise, nearly putting out Penelope's eye with his beak.

"It was all his idea! I totally do not endorse unauthorized surveillance operations under any circumstances," she blurts out, although I haven't yet thought to accuse her of anything besides looking ridiculous.

"Surveillance of who?"

Reid shakes his head, warning the tech not to blow their cover, but she is already babbling about animals that make bad pets and the character of people who don't visit their lonely relatives.

"Reid…" I say warningly.

We'd just been over this- the fixation on these deaths is unhealthy, and Reid had promised to try and move on.

"I need to know for sure. I have a bad feeling, and I've always trusted my instincts. Generally it's only a matter of time before there is evidence to corroborate them," he replies evenly.

"What does Hotch say?"

Reid doesn't answer. He takes off the mask and drops it on the coffee table, his face beneath looks sad and vulnerable.

"I want to investigate on my own, but I need help, I admit it. I'm a blind FBI agent- I'm useless," he spits out, like the words are painful. I've pushed him to say this, and I feel bad. I've gotten the information, but it was painfully excised like a bad tooth.

I don't bother to contradict him this time, it just pisses him off. Garcia's eyes fill with tears and she reaches over to hug the doctor. It's been a long time since Reid has said something this self deprecating, and it reminds me a lot of the doctor I first met.

He's made a lot of progress since then, but there are certain things that he'll always need help with. It's a sad fact, but that's just the way things are.

Later that evening I find myself bribing Reid to eat his dinner.

He lost weight during the hospital stay, and is starting to look what Garcia calls "scary thin". Dr. Steele mentioned to me at Reid's last appointment that if he doesn't put on at least ten pounds, we'll need to consider a feeding tube.

He's drinking meal replacement shakes throughout the day, but by suppertime he just doesn't want to eat. Penelope has made all kinds of high calorie dishes trying to entice him, but so far, I'm the only one who's gained any weight.

"What would get you to eat?" I finally ask, grasping at straws; I know the problem has a psychological component as well.

Reid can tell me how to fix this- has the answer to everything, right?

"To have assistance with surveillance of Jack Lombardi, so I can put my friends' murderer behind bars," he says grimly, pushing away the plate of grilled chicken and mashed potatoes.

"Okay. I can do that."

Reid turns my way and cocks his head to one side in a way that reminds me of a friend's pug, although, just for the record, the doctor looks more like a whippet. My brain is momentarily preoccupied, as I try to come up with my own canine doppelganger, when I realize that Reid is talking- that he's accepting my terms.

I wonder if the nursing credo of "patient first" extends to stalking behavior.

_What have I gotten myself into?_

TBC

**A.N. Thank you for the wonderful reviews I have received. Please keep them coming! **

**Also, if anyone is familiar with the D.C. area- any idea what neighborhood Reid lives in, and how far it would be from his work? I've done a bit of google research, but am still unsure.**


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: not mine, not profiting.

"_Considering how dangerous everything is, nothing is really very frightening." __ Gertrude Stein_

I draw the line at wearing a mask.

"But he saw you at the police station- he might recognize you," Reid argued.

"Don't you think wearing a ski mask will attract a little attention?"

"It'll be dark and we'll be far away- this just a precaution."

Luckily I have pretty generic features and don't stick out in a crowd; I'm average in pretty much every way.

The doctor, on the other hand gets looks of attraction from passersby, wherever he goes. Reid would argue that it's the cane that draws people's attention, but I've seen people do a double take, when his blindness is less apparent. Sitting by a window in the coffee shop wearing his sunglasses, Reid looks sighted to onlookers and still gets stares of appreciation.

Finally we agree on big sunglasses and a fake beard for Reid, a baseball cap for me and I'm wearing my old glasses instead of contacts. Lombardi only saw me briefly and he was fairly preoccupied at the time.

I think the beard is a bit much, but Garcia was so enthusiastic about applying it, that I gave in and said it looked convincing.

If this gets Reid to eat, he can wear a catsuit for all I care.

It's raining on the first evening**, **which seems fitting, given my feeling of foreboding. Unfortunately it also makes it really hard to follow Lombardi's Miata, and we quickly lose him at an intersection.

Saturday is spent uneventfully following Jack to his poker night, and Sunday finds us hiding behind a giant pyramid of Spam at the supermarket while Jack searches for the perfect cantaloupe.

I don't know exactly what we're looking for- unless Jack is seen disposing of a bloody knife, or wearing his late aunt's pearls, all of this "surveillance" is pretty pointless.

Reid shrugs off my doubts and reminds me of our agreement- he's already gained two pounds, so who am I to judge?

Monday evening looks like another wash, pun totally intended, until Jack stops to pick up his dry cleaning. The shop is large and connected to a Laundromat with a separate entrance.

Reid is asking questions a mile a minute, just like he always does, trying to fill in the gaps left by his blindness. I tell him the name of the shop and he freezes, dropping the handful of quarters I've given him to feed one of the machines. Coins roll around our ankles and underneath a row of dryers, but Reid isn't paying any attention.

"There's a Winchell Cleaners underneath my building- it's smaller than this one, and the dryers are always out of order. I had to carry wet clothes back to my apartment once, so I stopped going there, even though it's more convenient," Reid's words are coming faster now, and I know he's excited.

It seems like merely a coincidence to me, but what do I know? I'm a nurse, not Magnum P.I.

Jack is at the counter talking with the owner, when we notice his voice is rising. He hits the counter a few times with an open palm, making enough noise to draw glances from the other patrons.

The owner's voice is getting louder too, and he finally waves Lombardi outside. Reid wants to go closer, but there isn't enough cover. Through the glass we're getting a pretty good view, although we can't hear what they're saying.

Jack's hands are balled up into fists, just like they were back at the PD when Reid was antagonizing him. The owner turns to go back inside, but Jack stays right where he is, still yelling.

The entrance to the dry cleaner's opens with the tinkling of bells, as the owner pushes his way back inside. Jack hasn't moved from his spot on the street, and he's still yelling, the words audible now through the open door.

"You'll be sorry, Stu- just wait."

"Stuart Winchell, age 42, Laundromat mogul- he owns six in D.C. and works at the biggest one on 42nd Street. Husband of Marilyn Winchell, no kids, he has no police record and appears to be an upstanding citizen," Garcia recites.

I can hear a tv blaring in the background, and know she probably dug this up on a commercial break- she is the queen of multitasking.

"Can you check for any communication between Winchell and Lombardi?" Reid asks. His cheeks are flushed in excitement, and for the first time in ages he almost looks healthy.

"Way ahead of you, Reid- cell records indicate a ton of calls between the two of them. Lombardi always initiates the contact. It looks like Jack was pestering Mr. Clean for months before his aunt's death."

"Good work, Garcia. "

The next evening I find myself parked outside Jack's place.

Technically it's my day off, but I've come to consider this more of a side project than actually working.

What started as motivation for Reid's appetite has morphed into something greater- the argument at the Laundromat was heated, and now I think the doctor might be on to something.

I can tell that Jack Lombardi is a bad person.

This pronouncement may seem simplistic and entirely subjective, but I have always been a good judge of character- ask anyone.

My parents had loved Liz's last boyfriend, Michael. She'd invited him for Thanksgiving, and he'd presented well- clean cut and charming, he'd brought a bottle of "good" champagne and an elaborate flower arrangement for my mother. He'd listened indulgently as my father told boring stories about his office; he'd complimented my mother's cooking and even asked for the recipe for her candied yams.

I didn't like him from the moment I met him. He was fake and I couldn't believe my sister had fallen for this creep- but here she was proudly showing him off.

It wasn't just the patronizing way he spoke to my parents, or the lack of any substantial personality as far as I could see, it was a feeling. I just knew the guy was bad news, don't ask me how- I'm not superstitious or religious, but I do trust my gut reactions.

Sure enough, a week later Liz showed up at Carrie's in tears- confirming my suspicions.

Her boyfriend had canceled their date, claiming he had to work late. Liz had picked up some takeout and brought it to his office to surprise him with dinner.

It ended up Liz was the one who got a surprise- Michael in a compromising position with Helena, from Human Resources.

My parents were scandalized.

Once again, I learn that police dramas tend to gloss over the hours of uneventful waiting. Sitting in the car with Reid, while Lombardi meets with an accountant, I've probably drunk a gallon of coffee when nature calls.

"Reid, I'll be right back- I'm locking the doors. Don't open them for anyone."

"Can I use the stove?" comes the dry response, and I realize I'm talking to a holder of multiple PhD's and an FBI agent to boot. Reid looks young, but he's not a child staying home alone for the first time.

"Sorry, I just have to take a leak."

"Oh. There's an alley around back with some dumpsters, no one will see you," Reid informs me, and I remember that the accountant's office is only a few minutes from the doctor's apartment; he knows the area.

I'm fumbling with my belt and my zipper, feeling a bit guilty about my imminent transgression. I wonder what the penalty is for public urination, and if it applies to street people. That would be pretty unfair.

I'm smirking, remembering the Seinfeld episode where Jerry gets arrested for peeing in the parking garage, when I feel an enormous hand on my shoulder.

Cold eyes peer through the holes of the 'bad guy mask', and I'm feeling a tad bit uneasy when I notice that he's carrying a Louisville slugger. My aggressor is basically a caveman.

"You'll leave this alone if you know what's good for you. It's a big city… sometimes people get lost."

The man's breath is rank, and the clichéd line would make me groan if I heard it in a movie. But I'm not watching a movie- I'm standing in an alley with my pants around my ankles being threatened by a Neanderthal with a club.

He jabs me in the stomach with the handle of the bat, and I trip over the bunched denim at my feet. I instinctively put my arms out to steady myself, grabbing onto a nearby recycling bin and hanging on for dear life. A bag of cans and bottles spills out onto the pavement making enough noise to raise the dead, but the caveman doesn't flinch.

He's got the bat- he knows who's in charge.

He's bending over me now, and I'm praying that this isn't the part of an episode where the investigator gets "roughed up". He's turned the bat around and takes a practice swing, just in case he's gotten rusty.

He winds up swinging again, but this time he's aiming for my skull.

This is not good.

I scream and manage to roll out of the way as the bat thumps against the cement where my head just was.

"Back off, or I put one between your eyes."

Reid is standing at the end of the alley with his gun drawn, and I've never been so relieved in my entire life. I don't care that my white knight has a white cane- I'm just relieved that the lunatic only sees the pistol in Reid's hands.

My attacker drops the bat and darts through the rows of dumpsters to the end of the alley. He hops the chain link fence with surprising grace, and yells, "This isn't over," as he disappears from sight.

TBC

**AN: Sorry for the delay in posting, real life has been hectic and my muse needed a siesta. Please let me know what you thought of part 6, I treasure each review! **

**No beta, as per usual, please let me know if you spot an error. **

**I'm thinking this story will have two more chapters.**

**Thanks for reading! **


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: See first chapter**

**AN: My apologies for the delay in posting. Working graveyard shifts has made my muse sleepy.**

_The truth is not for all men, but only for those who seek it.__ ~Ayn Rand_

Lombardi is taken in for questioning even though he wasn't present during the attack. Something tells me he won't be much help to the police in locating the offender.

Hotch is livid when he hears what has happened, and I wonder if calling him was such a good idea. He arrives in record time and proceeds to interrogate everyone present. Reid looks uneasy when his boss pulls him aside, and I can tell he's not going to be congratulated for his heroics.

The cops leave and it's just Reid and I left with Hotch. He paces up and down the alley, stopping at the place where I nearly had my skull bashed in, and then continuing to the fence where my attacker escaped.

Reid is leaning against a brick building on one side of the alley; he looks tired now that the adrenaline has faded and I try to remember the last time he had something to eat. I tell Hotch I need to get Reid a snack- I'm pretty sure there's a can of Boost rolling around the floor of my car.

Agent Hotchner seems to take this as a signal to leave, and walks us back to my car, helping Reid into the passenger's seat, protecting his head from the doorframe like he's leading a suspect.

He tells me to follow his car, and I do, although I don't know where we're going. Are we getting an FBI escort back to Penelope's?

I follow Hotch's car down to the main road, matching his careful turns at a moderate speed- I imagine his hands at exactly ten and two and wonder if he is extra careful to try and compensate for all the dangerous stuff he does at work.

We make all the lights, and turn onto an unfamiliar street. A few more minutes and we pull into the driveway of a neat two story.

I have a hand on Reid's shoulder, planning to guide him through the new space, but he shrugs me off and strolls coolly down the hall. I hear the doctor's voice, followed by the laughter of a child.

I give a decidedly unmanly yelp, startled when someone puts a hand on my shoulder.

"Sorry, Noah, I didn't mean to sneak up on you," Hotch apologizes, and I'm embarrassed, but relieved at the same time.

"I guess I'm still kind of on edge."

Hotch doesn't say anything, but gestures for me to follow him. Down the hall there is a good sized kitchen, a blond woman is chopping vegetables at the island and there's a pot of water boiling on the stove.

I sit in the living room while dinner cooks, watching Reid interact with the little boy who clearly adores him. The doctor instructs the child to turn on the light and he scrambles to obey. Jack climbs onto the couch and stands up to twist the knob on the floor lamp, craning its neck to illuminate the wall beside Reid.

The genius's hands become ancient creatures. Shadows emerge.

"Brontosaurus. Pterodactyl. Tyrannosaurus Rex," Jack recites, carefully stretching his mouth around the long words.

And then there's a shadow I can't name, and Jack stares knowingly at the confusion on my face.

"It's Barney," he explains, his face splitting into a grin.

Dinner is a simple affair of pasta with vegetables, lightly seasoned with the doctor in mind. I find myself relaxing at the easy conversation around the table.

Hotch even smiles when his son starts telling knock-knock jokes to Reid. The doctor's laughter is genuine like he's never heard these corny routines before- and maybe he hasn't. Something tells me his childhood wasn't exactly traditional.

Before we leave, Hotch motions me aside.

"Doctor Reid was reckless and acted impulsively… but I'm glad that he did."

I look up, confused.

"You're okay, and that's what matters, Noah. It would've been a catastrophic loss to the team if anything happened to you."

A warm feeling spreads through my chest at the unexpected praise, and I shake the man's outstretched hand.

"But don't tell Reid I said that," Hotch adds, he's smiling again, and I silently marvel that lightning has struck twice.

On the morning after the attack, Morgan presents me with a whistle to wear around my neck and instructions to blow if I need help.

The fiasco in the alley does wonders for Reid's "street cred". People at work open doors for him with looks of admiration rather than sympathy, and the team- Hotch in particular- seems less worried that the doctor will be crushed by a hug, or blown over by a strong gust of wind.

His health may be precarious but he is far from fragile.

He's proved that he can handle himself, and even stand up for others.

Everyone is amazed at Reid's 'blind fearlessness' in the face of the unknown. I don't receive much ribbing for being the damsel in distress, so I suspect the doctor has omitted the 'pants around the ankles' aspect of the tale, for which I am grateful.

Reid downplays his heroics, and I know his mind is back on the case (if it ever left).

And then one day, out of the blue, he announces that he's returning to his apartment. He packs up the suitcases he's been living out of and shoos Simon into his carrier with an urgency I don't understand.

"I can't think here. I need to sleep in my own bed, and be surrounded by my own stuff. Simon's confused- he doesn't know where he lives anymore," he blurts out, defensive, although I'm not questioning the decision.

I don't understand really, but I'm glad he's changed his mind about going back.

Penelope's place is too small for the extra occupant; they're both feeling claustrophobic and starting to get under each other's skin.

Reid complains that Penelope's incense give him a headache. Garcia yells at Reid for finishing the yogurt and not writing it on the list. The kitchen is tiny and we're always bumping into each other.

I don't even live there and I'm climbing the walls.

"I can't stop hearing his voice," Reid muses one morning, poking sleepily at a bowl of cereal.

I know the caveman's parting words are looped inside his brain; my memory will never be discussed in a scientific journal, and I couldn't forget them if I tried.

"I've heard it before- somewhere, I'm sure."

He's burning the candle at both ends, as my grandma would say- putting in full days at the office followed by evenings shut in his apartment with only Simon for company. He doesn't seem afraid to be alone anymore and waives off Morgan's offers to spend the night, saying he needs time to think.

He tortures himself trying to remember, spending hours pacing in his study racking his brain for answers that elude him.

He can't match the voice to a face or a name and it's killing him. Reid's memory has never failed him before; he's not used to anything short of one hundred percent perfect recall.

He's pale and weak looking, though he chokes down three meals a day; his weight gain has plateaued- far from the goal set by his physician. Dr. Steele looks grave at Reid's next appointment, and mentions the possibility of tube feeding at night.

I come in one morning, and Reid's not sprawled on the couch with his laptop like he usually is. Simon winds himself through my legs and then trots down the hall all the while making his crazy meow. He turns and gives me a cross eyed look to make sure I'm coming and then disappears into the doctor's room.

I follow the cat. I don't speak Siamese, but am familiar with the "Timmy is stuck in the well" routine.

A sick smell is emanating from the bedroom, and I brace myself for what I'm about to find.

The room is hot; Reid is tossing and turning in bed, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.

I sidestep a puddle where he missed the trashcan, Reid groans and rolls away when I prod him. I say his name, but get no response. Peeling back the comforter, he shies away from me, pale and wild eyed as he feels around for the sheet.

I take out my cell and call Hotch to tell him that Reid won't be in today. This draws a faint mumble of protest from the bed, but it's halfhearted- he knows he's in no condition to work.

His fever is low grade and the nausea seems to have subsided. He says his stomach hurts but he's not in pain like he was with the blockage, which is a relief.

"It's the stomach flu, Reid."

"Actually the term "stomach flu" is a misnomer- there's no such thing. The flu is a respiratory illness, I most likely have a stomach virus like gastroenteritis," Reid says, his voice muffled by the pillow.

I roll my eyes, but I'm glad he's feeling well enough to correct me. I guess it serves me right for using layman's terms with a genius.

An hour later he's sitting up sipping Pedialyte, and by lunchtime he's perked up enough to move to the living room.

I broach the subject of eating something and am kind of surprised when he's interested. I was thinking of something lighter like chicken broth or crackers, but he's talking wistfully of the grilled cheese sandwiches Mrs. Lombardi used to make, and I give in against my better judgment.

Big mistake.

Half an hour later he bolts from the sofa and into the bathroom, expertly navigating down the hall. I go and check on him; he's pale and sweating on the toilet, holding his face in his hands.

Reid's a trooper and tries to drink the rehydrating solution, but he's still rushing to the bathroom every ten minutes and not enough fluids are being replaced. It's dangerous for him to get dehydrated, so I set up an IV despite the doctor's weak protests.

Morgan stops by in the afternoon, raising his eyebrows at the facemask and gloves I'm wearing.

"Where's patient zero?"

Simon is a furry ball trying stubbornly to share a pillow with Reid, who's curled up on the couch, exhausted. The Siamese appears perched on his head, tail curling beside his ear like a Davy Crockett cap.

"I promised I'd keep him up to date on the case. These are some of the files he wanted," Morgan adds, holding up an official looking folder.

"It's been reopened?"

"Not officially, but Prentiss has contacts at the PD and got them to release more details about the crime scene. Some of the pictures are kind of grisly," he warns me.

"I'll show them to him when he wakes up."

"Is that an IV…? Should he still be at home?" Morgan asks, looking squeamish at the tubing connected to his friend. I can't understand his aversion to needles given the things he has seen.

But then again, I'm used to blood but crime scenes make me queasy- maybe it's all about the context.

"It's precautionary, I'm trying to prevent dehydration. With Reid's past injuries he's more at risk. To a healthy person the bug would be puking and the runs for a day or two and then they'd be fine…"

"But Reid's not a healthy person," Morgan finishes my sentence, and he's right although I wasn't going to use those words.

"His health was affected by the accident, Morgan. You know that. The miraculous thing is how well he is most of the time."

The black man shrugs like he doesn't care, but I know he needs to hear this.

"This is just a setback; he'll be back to getting on your nerves before you know it."

Morgan smiles, and mutters something about having been pestered mercilessly for the crime scene files.

We watch the football game, chatting easily and eating the pizza he ordered.

Reid is dopy when he wakes up, but wants to stay with us rather than move into the bedroom.

Morgan offers to stay the night, but I decline, needing to monitor the doctor's fluid and electrolyte balance. He needs help to the bathroom now that he's attached to an IV, and I know he resents assistance for something so intimate.

Morgan stays anyway and so do I. It turns into an impromptu Nintendo fest when he reveals Reid's secret stash of Atari relics. I'm surprised; the doctor doesn't strike me as the video game type, but then people change.

They have accidents and get cats… they lose friends.

Life happens.

We play Pong and Super Mario and are just starting a game of Donkey Kong when Reid calls weakly from the couch.

I help guide his IV pole with one arm and offer support with the other. The doctor stumbles a few times and mutters something incoherent.

"What did you say?"

"I miss video games. Especially Pong."

It's a simple comment, induced more by fever and fatigue than genuine sorrow, but my gut clenches anyway and I feel guilty for enjoying the games; it's yet another simple pleasure that's been ripped away.

Reid sleeps for the rest of the night- I sneak in a few times to check his vitals and change the IV bag, but luckily my caution is unwarranted. He seems to be bouncing back.

The next morning he wants to go to work with Morgan. He's crabby and the circles under his eyes are more pronounced. He's whining like a little kid who badly needs a nap.

"Just for the morning- I'll come home at lunchtime," he promises, reduced to bargaining.

I shake my head, and for once I dig in my heels.

"You've got a "stomach virus", remember? I doubt the bureau will appreciate you sharing your germs."

Reid glares but he backs down.

I rarely use my nursing veto, but I won't be responsible for a messy outbreak at the FBI, and I know Hotch won't be singing my praises if he gets this bug.

An hour later he's asleep on the couch with half a bottle of Gatorade loosely in his grip. He's managed to keep down a piece of toast, but grudgingly admits he still doesn't feel well. He's exhausted from the day before and I know I've made the right call.

By two o'clock he's complaining that he's bored. His tone is whiny and he shoots down my ideas of taking a nap or listening to an audio book on his computer- leading me to believe that he wants to complain rather than hear suggestions.

I flick on the TV and crank up the volume to drown out his voice- I should probably be more patient, but I've been looking after him around the clock- couldn't he at least be appreciative?

It's a crappy local station, but looks more impressive on Reid's big screen- a gift from the BAU when he came home after his accident. It's a gigantic screen, the thickness of a deck of cards, and has what my grandma would call "all the bells and whistles". The thing could probably make you dinner and do your taxes if you knew how to program it right (I don't).

It makes the cube in my own living room look like something that belongs in a museum.

Unsurprisingly, Reid's not a big fan of TV; he gets his news online, and with the exception of Star Trek reruns the set doesn't get much use. But sick days and television go together like PB&J, so I ignore his protests that TV is boring. If nothing else it will put him to sleep.

I try to clean up.

Sickness has spun through the apartment like a tornado.

I collect the half dozen drinking glasses on Reid's nightstand and make his bed. I putter around the apartment, making a giant pile of used sheets and dirty clothes. I tidy up the bathroom as best I can, grateful that the cleaning lady will be by tomorrow to do a more thorough job. I hope she has lots of bleach- yuck.

I'm in the kitchen feeding the cat when I hear a strangled yelp from the living room. I drop the container of kibble and hurry into the other room, not sure what to expect. If there is a calamity that can befall the couch bound, Reid would find it.

His voice is excited and he greets me like an old friend he hasn't seen in years.

"Noah!" he cries from a tangled pile of blankets on the floor. He's fallen off the sofa and I'm torn somewhere between concern and amusement as I help him to his feet.

"I know who attacked you in the alley."

TBC

**AN: Thank you for all the comments, favorites and alerts- they make my day! Last chapter (8) coming soon (I hope!)**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: see first chapter**

_Life and death are one thread, the same line viewed from different sides. ~Lao Tzu  
_

"It's him!" he crows proudly, pointing a finger in the vague direction of the screen.

There's an advertisement playing for a local real estate agency. I've seen it before and nothing caught my attention, but it wouldn't be the first time the doctor has seen something I couldn't.

A huge guy with shoulders like a linebacker is standing on a lawn shaking the hands of a young couple with a baby. Everyone's smiles look forced; which, of course, they are.

It's supposed to be heartwarming and make the company look family oriented, but all I notice is the hulking realtor- a Neanderthal clad in what has to be a custom suit. Add a ski mask and put a bat in his hand, and voila- you have my attacker.

The realtor opens his mouth and I can almost smell the halitosis. He's spouting some cheesy line about "finding _homes, _not _houses_" but there's no mistaking the voice.

_Realtor by day, caveman by night- _the twisted double life of a superhero villain.

The number for the agency flashes on the bottom of the screen as the camera pans out to show a nice house in a cookie cutter neighborhood. The family is frozen in a demented nativity, grinning like idiots as the canned jingle plays.

A minute later I'm still gawking at the set (now playing an infomercial for a kitchen knife that can cut through aluminum cans) in disbelief.

Things move pretty quickly after this, like Reid has fed quarters into a machine that was previously out of order. Penelope finds names and dates, and tracks business transactions between Lombardi and the caveman, Pierce Chalmers. Lombardi isn't named on the company's payroll, but there is a title with a salary that disgusts me and I'm pretty sure that "consultant" is a euphemism for "hit man".

Chalmer's company, Chocolate City Realtors, was planning to buy all the buildings on Reid's street for several blocks. The property of land and businesses had been secured, with the exception of Winchell's Laundromat and Mrs. Lombardi's apartment complex.

The project couldn't move ahead until they agreed to sell.

It's like one of those dot to dot puzzles on a paper placemat- it's easy enough so the kids won't get frustrated, but time consuming so they're busy until the food arrives. The cat's nose and whiskers are drawn in, just in case the kid isn't very bright.

The PD connects the dots that Reid and Garcia have plotted as they reopen "_their"_ investigation.

It all takes way longer than it does on CSI so it's sort of anticlimactic when they finally take Chalmers and Lombardi into custody. Maybe I'm naïve or just watching too much TV, but I'm a little disappointed that everything isn't wrapped up in forty-five minutes.

Some questions remain- there is no forensic evidence of an intruder in Charles Morales' apartment so the reason for his death is still unknown.

My money's on the snake.

The doctor doesn't get any credit publically- which might not be a bad thing. It probably wouldn't help the community's confidence in law enforcement if they knew the case had really been solved in a blind man's spare time.

The people who matter know what Reid has done, and that seems to be enough for him. Chalmers and Lombardi are behind bars.

Good people one, bad people zip.

Garcia and Morgan throw a surprise party at Reid's place on the evening of the arrests. Dozens of people pop out from behind furniture, apparently forgetting they don't need to hide from the guest of honor.

Everyone makes a lot of noise, and I'm pretty sure the doctor is only pretending to be startled when they shout "Surprise!"

He stands there grinning as he's showered with confetti (painstakingly hole punched by Penelope) and everyone rushes over and starts talking at once.

Simon spends the night with the dust bunnies under Reid's bed, but everyone else has a pretty good time. Neighbors pop in and out like gophers, expressing their relief that the killer has finally been caught.

The doctor receives fruit baskets for weeks. A cornucopia of good will and appreciation, fruit baskets are the gold standard in versatility.

Congratulations, gratitude, sympathy... They do it all.

Had a baby?

Fruit basket.

Your parakeet died?

Fruit basket.

Caught the murderer terrorizing my apartment complex?

(Slightly larger) fruit basket.

Justice has been served, but Reid still isn't hungry.

The thrill of the arrests fades and Reid's spirit just seems flat. One week passes, and then another; the doctor's still upset, but now he doesn't even have the case to distract him.

He leaves his briefcase at the office, and for once I wish he would revert back to his workaholic tendencies.

Instead he spends evenings and weekends on the couch pretending to watch science fiction marathons on the big screen.

He locks himself in his study listening to classical music at top volume, like he wants to be deaf as well. It's only because of his hero status that no one complains.

Hotch starts dropping by, always with an excuse- relaying an office memo that could have been emailed, returning an ugly cardigan that Reid left on the jet…

The doctor loses his temper with me over a pill.

His weight has improved marginally, but his diet is limited and I'm worried he's not getting all the proper nutrients. A daily multivitamin would give us, well _me,_ peace of mind but he snaps at me like I'm an idiot when I suggest it, like I've proposed the use of asbestos to soundproof his study.

He's been crabby a lot lately, but as far as I know he's been feeling okay- or at least not any worse than usual. I'm getting tired of being treated like crap, so I finally say something.

"You solved the case pretty much single handedly, Reid. You should be happy, not sulking around and being mean to everyone," I blurt, the last part tumbling out by mistake.

He's silent for a long time, turning my words over carefully like a delicate crepe.

"I should be happy that my friend is dead?"

There's an awkward silence in which I mentally berate myself for my lack of tact. I'm supposed to be helping Reid, not making him feel even worse.

"Bad things happen… it's hard right now, but things will get better."

"It's just unfair that she's gone. It's like, if we can't keep each other safe, then why are we even doing any of this?" his voice is cracking now, and I want more than anything to make everything okay again.

"You can't save everyone, Reid. It's terrible to lose a friend, but you've done all you can to get justice for her."

Reid's mouth twists into a frustrated pretzel before relaxing, his face blank.

"Putting those men in cages doesn't change the fact that a good person is dead," he retorts, his sightless eyes glitter with intensity and for once he manages to look me straight in the face.

"It's different than at work- I care about the victims, but I didn't know them. They didn't mend my sweaters or teach me how to cook something that didn't come out of a can," he laughs humorlessly before trudging on.

"They didn't sit with me for hours in the hospital when I was hurting so bad and afraid to be alone. They didn't _treat me like a person_ instead of some kind of- some kind of useful freak of nature…" he stutters, trailing off and closing his mouth for a minute, like he's not sure he wants to say anything more.

"They weren't the closest thing to a…" he draws in a shaky breath before continuing.

"They weren't my friend," he finishes, but I can tell that this wasn't what he was going to say.

I'm kind of shocked by the disclosure, and I realize that this is the most he's said to me in weeks.

I try to think of something reassuring to say- even a cheesy greeting card sentiment like "she's with you in your heart" would be preferable to the silence.

My mouth opens and closes like a flounder, but my voice doesn't work.

How do you reconfirm someone's faith in their work- in humanity?

How do you tell someone that everything will be okay, when you're not even sure that it's true?

The doctor takes a leave of absence from work. He's having more pain than usual, and the narcotics barely take the edge off. Dr. Steele doesn't want to increase his meds; the painkillers suppress his appetite and food is already a battle.

At the end of one appointment, the physician says something cryptic about the mind/body connection which Reid interprets as meaning the pain is psychological and thus "imaginary".

Reid tells me to cancel their next appointment.

Garcia and Morgan float in and out of the doctor's home, relieving me at regular intervals so I can maintain some semblance of a normal life. We orbit Reid like he's a dying star, refusing to let him self destruct.

Hotch visits twice a week and the other agents float through the apartment like spores.

No one wants to lose a friend.

Reid is in what my dad calls "a funk". My mom would call it a crisis of faith.

The phone call comes at the worst time.

The team is over playing Trivial Pursuit- a clever ploy that actually works- drawing the doctor in like a magnet. He's laughing at something Prentiss just said, and nibbling at the sandwich I have strategically placed to his left.

Maybe it's just the momentary distraction, but the doctor is smiling and eating; he looks almost content- more like his old self.

Reid's cell starts playing Vanilla Ice (Morgan likes to play with the settings) and we all freeze, a herd of deer facing an impending semi. The doctor takes the call in his study; he's gone for ages and the game isn't any fun without him. The team wanders away from the table, flicks on a game and starts reminiscing about a kidnapping case they worked on in Denver.

I don't share the memory, and I get bored and drift away from the group. Somehow I end up outside the study.

Simon is parked an inch from the door, his tail swishing furiously at the insult of being shut out. I know how he feels, and bend down to scratch the spot on his jaw that makes him purr like an engine.

He leans in appreciatively, and winks at me like we're complicit in something; or maybe there's something in his eye.

Reid comes out, and we back away so he doesn't run into us.

"Noah, is that you?" he asks, and for a second I consider ducking into the bedroom like I didn't hear.

"Yeah. It's me."

He looks tired, like the conversation has drained his reserves, and I swallow the urge to ask him who it was.

"She left me everything."

There is a lot of legal mumbo jumbo and red tape before he finally gets the keys to Mrs. Lombardi's "estate". Lawyers hack away at the fortune, chiseling away fees and taxes, but there's still a tidy sum remaining.

His life doesn't change very much, even though Reid is rich by most people's standards.

He's generous to his friends, and makes sizable donations to the literacy club and a private hospital in Nevada. I get a bonus that makes my eyes bug out when I see the check and make Reid promise to keep a little for himself.

"I have everything I need," he says stubbornly.

The day of the party is scorching hot. The foyer is crowded and the guests have to use the elevator in shifts. Morgan carries little Doris Henderson up the short flight of stairs to the rooftop, Hotch following behind with a doll-sized wheelchair. The woman is in her nineties and doesn't appear to have been outside in years, but Reid insists that everyone be invited.

The rooftop patio has been transformed. What was once a barren expanse of concrete with a few deck chairs has become a tiny paradise.

There are rows of raised beds teeming with flowers and vegetables, Marvin Peebles grins toothlessly as he putters around the zucchini patch, raking the margins of soil evenly and stooping every so often to remove a slug or pick a weed.

The swimming pool is kidney shaped; smooth and glasslike before its surface is broken by the first cannonball. Soon the water is filled with kids- some are the tenants' grandchildren, and there are a few from the literacy club who helped plant the flowers.

People mill around, oohing and ahhing over the flowers and the pool, sipping vibrantly colored drinks with miniature umbrellas; everyone stops to read the plaque on the sundial which christens the space as the Gloria Lombardi Memorial Garden.

Reid's paleness is ethereal in the sunlight, head tipped back to properly worship sky. He dips his feet in the water; brown corduroys rolled to the knee, a striped orange sock and a yellow one cast aside his shed pair of Converse.

JJ sits beside him in a tasteful one piece that does nothing to stop men in deck chairs from ogling. She bends and whispers something in his ear and he laughs.

Prentiss comes to sit at the picnic table beside me, she offers me a fruity concoction of Penelope's with two straws and I take a drink. The sun is shining, and children are laughing.

On the rooftop, I forget about bad people, and the summer seems infinite.

**The End **

**A/N: Thank you for reading! This was my first multi chapter CM fic, please review and tell me what you think! **

**Unbetaed as always- please let me know if you find an error. **


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